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Thanks-giving.

December, Diciembre
turned the page with a storm
battering windows in the night.
But in it I saw the
Moonlight framed in cedar
monoliths,
Laughter rising above our heads like the steam circling
upward into the cedar boughs;
words of love hope fear worry reflection connection,
building and weaving
a web stronger than our words
and arms,
the silent lake
standing witness
to our communion and our melancholies,
Blues poems written into the pages we hold folded at our chests
like origami birds
while beaming songs
into each others’ lungs.
And all the atoms in our bodies
were born in the hearts of
dying white dwarf stars,
And we feel that;
We feel it all.

And we know the false arch may be as much
as most of us can expect in this life,
but we don’t want
to be ‘the most of us.’
We refuse, we cant
fathom that.
Only the very lucky
discover the keystone, and we are looking and looking and waiting
and singing our souls into the whirlwind.
We are the lucky,
We will it to be so.
And in the mean time
We prop each other up, though not as false arches—
but like these black branches holding up the moonlight,
Framing its stubborn courage as it
Spills light all over the darkness.

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